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PROLOGUE

ALLY (AGED 14)

It always begins the same way—a hallway drowned in silence, a restless feeling coiling in my stomach, and a decision that isn’t really a decision at all. I know this routine all too well, but now that I have boobs, it seems to happen more frequently, as if my body has become a beacon for these unsettling moments.

Canary Bay High is supposed to be safe. Not like the gritty schools churned out by movies, with their shadowy danger lurking behind every corner. Instead, there are pretty flowerbeds at the entrance, a faded dolphin mural, and a strict no-tolerance policy for nearly everything. Yet, none of that holds any comfort when the hallway lies empty and a boy, two years my senior, corners me with his arm pinned against the wall.

Breath reeking of cheap energy drinks, his voice is slick and dripping with condescension as he taunts, “You’re always scribbling in that little book of yours, Ally. What do you draw? Pictures of me?” I can feel my eyes roll in defiance, and even as I try to slip under his grasp, he blocks my path with a force that leaves me both weary and enraged.

“Come on,” he insists, drawing closer until his nearness feels like an invasion. “Just one kiss. Don’t be such a tease.”

I’m not exactly scared; fear is muddled here with anger. My hands clench into fists, my heart pounds a frantic beat, and my pulse screams at me to run, yet I stand there, paralysed by conflicting impulses to run or stand up to him. “I said no,” I manage—a defiant whisper that seems swallowed by the thick air between us.

He doesn’t heed my protest. His hand reaches out—then, in an instant, the whole scene shatters. One moment, he is looming over me, and the next, he’s tumbling to the ground with a resounding thud that echoes down the hallway.

That’s when I see him.

Rhys Gilmore.

The new kid, emerging like a bolt of conflicted vengeance. Without a word, he lunges at the boy, fists flailing with raw, fiery speed. A brutal, sickening crack splits the silence—was it a punch, a shattered rib? I’m rooted in place, trapped in a swirl of shock and a rising tide of emotions.

The aggressor struggles against Rhys’s relentlessness, but Rhys is a force of unpredictable passion—until the sharp call of a teacher sends pounding footsteps descending the hallway.

In moments, Rhys is hauled away, panting, blood trickling from his nose, while the other boy crumples, his lip severed, and curses spilling from him.

I stand there, frozen, clutching my sketchbook as if it were a fragile shield, feeling an internal dissonance too overwhelming to name.

Time seems to stretch and compress all at once, the chaotic interplay of anger, relief, and something uncomfortably tender settling in.

Later, when I find Rhys again, he’s in the nurse’s office. Sitting slumped on a bed with an ice pack pressed against his ribs, dark hair tumbling over his eyes, he looks as if he’d rather disappear completely.

I don’t knock; instead, I step inside, shutting the door with a heaviness that matches my confused heart. The nurse is outside typing on her computer.

He doesn’t even spare me a glance, and that silence is almost louder than any spoken word. So, I take the space beside him until our knees lightly touch, and before I know it, my resolve morphs into something impulsive.

I lean in and kiss him—a kiss that is anything but gentle. It’s rough and desperate, messy with unspoken frustration and vulnerability.

A silent scream of thanks and admission fight against the turmoil inside me as I try to articulate my feelings in that moment.

Then he pulls away, a whispered, “Wait—” barely escaping his lips, and right then, the door creaks open.

In steps a pretty blonde, polished, almost too perfect—her presence radiates calm and impeccable composure, as if every step, every word, was rehearsed for this very moment. “Rhys!” she exclaims, hurrying over. “I heard what happened. Are you okay?”

Rhys stands, stiff and measured, as though he’s trying to process too many emotions all at once. “Ashley, this is Ally. Ally, Ashley. She’s new here too,” he says abruptly, a self-imposed boundary building between us.

I step back, words burning on my tongue, my cheeks aflame—not with embarrassment, but a raw, unyielding sense of betrayal.

Ashley touches his arm gently. “You’re still bleeding. Come on, let’s get you home.” And just like that, he goes.

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t explain the maelstrom inside him. He escapes with the air of someone unwilling to confront the contradictions between his impulses and the expected decorum.

I’m left standing there, stunned—like a firework whose spark fizzled out before taking flight.

Later, the truth surfaces. Their dads were acquainted—a tangled web of business deals, reputations, and obligations built on pretence. Their relationship was never meant to be real; it was nothing more than a facade crafted by expectation.

And yet, in the turbulence of that moment, it had felt achingly genuine for me. I, the girl left outside that carefully arranged life, felt every truth like a betrayal.

I kissed him first, diving into an ocean of emotions I had kept hidden, revealing a part of me that I had tried to keep locked away. He may have been the new kid at school, but the attraction to him was instant. I felt things for him I’d never felt before.

And after that, everything shifted.

Rhys did not vanish from our lives—instead, he embedded himself among us like a puzzle piece that no one quite knew where to place. Arden was the first to note his courage; Chase, though reserved, harboured a cautious curiosity. Before long, Rhys was woven into our everyday: at the lunch table, buzzing in group chats, lounging on the couch during movie nights.

And me?

I was forced to pretend that the boy I desperately wanted—the boy who only gave half his presence when he was with me—was just another friend. He would sit beside me and crack jokes. He would debate with Chase about his favourite bands and teams, and I would laugh along, a hollow echo behind every smile.

But every time I caught his eye, I was reminded of that hallway confrontation, of the raw edge in his stare, of the moment when he withdrew so abruptly.

That memory gnawed at me. Because despite my resolve, I still loved him. I loved him even when I promised myself that I’d never let feelings compromise my defences again.

I was the only girl in the group; I lived in a household where my presence was acknowledged only when I broke a plate or slammed a door. My art was my sanctuary, the only thing I truly owned. And Rhys—he was meant to be the one person who saw me beyond the labels, the one who didn’t treat me as if I were fragile or merely an obligation.

But I was wrong, and so I built walls. I sharpened my voice with sarcasm and became a fortress of fire and defiance, keeping every boy at arm’s length.

Because love?

Love makes you soft, makes you hesitate, and makes you believe in fleeting, wistful moments that might mean nothing in the end.

So, I guard my heart fiercely—from the boy who once saved me, from the boy I can’t seem to stop loving, even when my entire self is screaming for me to let go.

I kissed him first. He shattered me first. And ever since, I’ve been tangled in the wreckage, trying to piece together a heart that is as conflicted as the echoes of that empty hallway.